


The Boss

by TheMadKingTargaryen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Boss - Freeform, Bully, Bullying, Fanfic, Fanfiction, Feet, Kinky, M/M, Male - Freeform, Punishment, Revenge, Sex, Stocks, Story, tickle, tickled, ticklish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23295889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadKingTargaryen/pseuds/TheMadKingTargaryen
Summary: James Sullivan's life is turned upside down by his boss and arch enemy Tate McKinley. After a misguided attempt at revenge James finds himself in a terrifying situation, one that will test his limits and prove if he really is the weakling that Tate takes him for...NSFW - contains an explicit sex scene between a man and a woman. (IF YOU READ THE INTERLUDE, WHICH YOU DON'T HAVE TO)Hope you enjoy it!
Kudos: 8





	1. FIRED

James loved his job.

It was everything he could have ever wanted: his own spacious desk, a designated parking spot, an infinite stream of coffee from the communal machine, great pay, great colleagues (mostly), and all just a five minute drive from his apartment that he shared with his beautiful girlfriend, Nina. There was just one thing that marred his experience at work, like a bad aftertaste in a delicious drink.

Tate McKinley, James' boss.

For some reason (James really had no clue why) Tate had had it out for the hardworking - if slightly ordinary - man since he had started at Peacock Solicitors. Nothing overt, nothing solid enough to actually pinpoint and go to HR over (not that HR were much use to anybody: Linda and Simon were the two laziest people James had ever met), but just enough to make one thing crystal clear: Tate fucking despised James.

And James really didn't get it. The 5'7'' brunette with average looks and a slight lack of muscle was in no way competition to the 6'2'' hunk with chiselled features and a mane of deep black hair, so it wasn't like he threatened his masculinity. Maybe he would have understood (if not sympathised) has that been the case: being emasculated was just horrible. But, seeing as it wasn't the case, James was stuck quietly resenting Tate.

Fortunately, James, like most Americans, had survived a bullying immersion-therapy course called Middle School, and then completed the refresher course called High School, so he wasn't too phased by the dirty looks, eye rolls or blatant interruptions that were thrown his way on a daily basis. If he could handle Xavier Fumero shoving a dissected frog down his shirt in 9th grade he could handle a few childish passive (sometimes not so passive) aggressions.

Until the 7th June that year, when James' happy little life was capsized...

( ͡° ͟ʖ ͡°)

It was ok. This was fine. He'd make it.

James was sitting in his car, stationary in a long line of traffic caused by some pileup or some other shitty fucking reason, trying to reassure himself that he wouldn't be late. He wouldn't.

"I will not be late and I will not panic." He said, panicking.

He had left the apartment slightly later than usual because his cat had made the altruistic decision to puke green sludge down his suit just before he had to leave. Annoying (Very annoying, in fact. Ser Pounce would not be getting any treats for the next month!), but he could handle it; James always left slightly early anyway, so the setback should have only made him slightly less premature for work. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about...unless there was a huge fucking traffic jam of the very road he needed to get to work (Which there was.)

He was twenty minutes late when he pulled into the parking lot. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck my life." He muttered, practically sprinting through the foyer and frantically calling the elevator. When the doors pinged open on his floor he slunk into his chair and tried to act casual. This was the first time he had been late to work and it was embarrassing, frankly.

He thought he was safe. Nobody had noticed his absence for the beginning of the morning, because why should they? Everybody gets bad mornings.

Then a dense hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that reeked of danger. Without turning around James already knew who's hand this was.

"Tate." James said, trying not to gulp like a cartoon.

"James. So wonderful to see you today. Can I please talk to you in my office?" It was posed as a question but it required no response; James was going to his office regardless. James digested the sickly sweet way Tate had talked to him on the way to the office. He was up to something, and it gave James butterflies...of dread. (Moths?)

"James." Tate said, his deep voice like a right hook when confined to his office. The handsome man looked even more imposing in his high-backed office chair that framed him like a throne. "Have you been having a good morning?"

"Yes. It's been fine. Some traffic, but nothing too bad. What is this ab-"

"I'll get straight to the point, James. You were late today." His smirk never faltered.

"Yes. Sorry about that. As I said it was because of the traffic. It was only twenty minutes. I'll make up the time."

Tate steepled his fingers before him. "Normally that would be acceptable, James, but that not going to work."

"Wh-"

"This is the fourth time you've been over ten minutes late this quarter."

"What? Not it isn't I-" James protested. He prided himself on always being punctual to work. This was the very first time he had been late. In fact, this was the first time he had ever been late to anything! As a youth he had been so afraid of authority that he hadn't been tardy to a single lesson or day of school. Now, infuriatingly, at age 25, his punctual streak had been shattered.

"I wouldn't interrupt me, Mr Sullivan." Tate said, voice flaring in anger like a fanned flame.  
"As I was saying this is the fourth time you have been more than ten minutes late this quarter and, as you probably know, Peacock Solicitors has a strict 'three strikes and you're out' policy about tardiness. Time is money after all. Now, I have put myself at risk by being more lenient with you on your third strike by letting you stay on without reporting you to the seniors. But...a fourth strike is too much for even me to excuse."

James was lost for words. He was being framed. "This is the first time I have ever been late and you fucking know it." He said, standing up from the desk dramatically.

"Mind your language, Mr Sullivan, this is a workplace. And calm down. You getting you panties in a twist is embarrassing, frankly." James reluctantly lowered his ass to the chair, seething. "And according to official records this is only the third time, but we both know different. I tried my hardest to preserve your job, James I really did, but I'm afraid...I'm going to have to let you go." He slid a termination of contract order across the table.

The words landed like a sucker punch to James' stomach. He rose from the chair and clenched his hands into fists. Tate rose also, a calm smile gracing his handsome face. A devilish fire danced in his eyes.

He felt ill. Faint. Angry. No. Furious. But he was powerless. Tate knew it. James knew it. Tate was smart, charming and had connections in the company. James' firing would pass unnoticed if Tate desired; fighting this was like trying to stop a tsunami. May as well let it sweep you along and just pray it ends you quickly. Even if James couldn't save his job, he could sure as hell release some pent-up rage; he had nothing to lose.

"You are the slimiest cunt I have ever encountered." He jabbed his finger at the taller man's chest. "You've hated me for no reason ever since I arrived at this place. This is illegal, but I'm not even going to try and investigate it, because rich, attractive people like you are immune to the law. The world revolves around you and I am so fucking sick of it. The day will come when the world catches up with you and kerb-stomps your ass."

The smirk remained. "I didn't hate you for no reason, limp dick. I hated you because you're weak. I could smell it as soon as I laid eyes on you; cowardice, fear of rejection. It disgusted me. Instead of taking life and riding it like it's your bitch you let it fuck you into submission." He popped his knuckles and cracked his neck. "I take weak people and then I break them. Because it's fun. You're welcome."

James could have screamed. Instead, shaking, he snatched the paper and walked to the door. Just before he left he stopped. "Fuck you." He spat, with all the venom he could muster.

The door slammed shut.

"You wish." Tate smiled.


	2. BREAKING IN

James' life had capsized. And then started sinking, slowly but surely, into dark and icy depths.

He spent the weeks following his firing with a dark cloud hanging over his head. The first few days had been a hazy mess of ice cream binges and crying on Nina's shoulder. James' sadness, panic and fear at what was to come solidified eventually into a immense, immovable slab of pure fury. He wanted to do things to Tate. Violent and cruel fantasies filled his head, though he would never commit any of them.

James decided to go and visit his parents in Bel Air for three weeks, without Nina (she still had a job), just to get some fresh air and to look after his mental health.

A plan germinated in his mind over the three weeks, just a seed at first, then flourished into a flower of potential. It was...risky, and not necessarily legal...but it offered a good chance at vengeance. Tate McKinley would regret ever messing with James Sullivan.

*3 years ago*

"And...er...well...I was just wondering if you would...m-mind going out with me?" James said, not making eye contact with the beautiful girl before him. If he had been looking he would have seen a broad grin spread across her face.

She leapt forward and pulled him into an embrace. "Of course I'll go out with you." She whispered, sending tingles ricocheting from his neck to his toes.

Then they kissed, lovingly and deeply, and when they pulled apart Nina punched him in the arm lightly. "I have one requirement, though. You have got to have more confidence in yourself! 'Would you mind going out with me'? I would love to go out with you! You are a funny, handsome and truly kind person, James." She stroked a thumb down his bashful face. "Remember that."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tate McKinley's house was large to say the least. It was separated from the main road by a sweeping drive and sat lazily on top of a gentle slope. It was a beautiful house, one you would expect to see from someone with a six figure salary like the one Tate wormed his way into.

Three cars were parked in the driveway: a gigantic black Range Rover, a deep blue Tesla and a bright orange Lamborghini, the kind of car that would usually scream 'I HAVE A SMALL PENIS!' although James knew that that wasn't the case in this instance, as much as he hated to admit it. Tate's bulge was almost distractingly huge.

He was ridiculously tempted to key all three of them, but that wasn't the plan. Stick to the plan. Well...there wasn't really a concrete plan per se...it was more of a 'break into his house and find either some important documents to destroy or some dirty little secrets that would ruin Tate's career' kind of plan.

The recently unemployed young man stood on the lawn to the side of the house, dressed all in black, waiting just one extra moment to make extra sure that Tate wasn't home. It was the night of the Peacock Solicitors annual ball, which Tate - being in the senior position he was- would definitely be attending. Still, better safe than sorry. No lights were on in any of the windows and no signs of life had been spotted in the twenty minutes he had been watching. All three cars being here wasn't an issue either: Tate would obviously get an Uber to the venue so that he could take full advantage of the free bar laid on by the company. James had witnessed his drunkenness before. It was not pretty. Plus James was sure Tate would rather slaughter puppies than get one scratch on his precious cars, so would never risk driving drunk. Actually, now that Ryan thought about it, Tate would probably slaughter puppies for the fun of it.

James, wrapped in shadow, darted forward once he was sure the coast was clear. He lifted all rocks and ornaments in the shrubbery, desperately trying to find the spare key. Eventually he found it, under the statue of the bare chested woman. Of course.

As quietly as possible he entered the house. Still no lights and, even luckier, no alarms. He crept on his tiptoes through the large house, peering in all of the rooms until he found...the study. Yes. And there was the desk where he surely kept all of his documents, or at least some dodgy stuff he wouldn't want others finding.

In the near dark he accidentally kicked the side of a chair that made a loud scraping sound. His heart raced and he froze...

No stirring from within the house. Tate was definitely gone.

With that knowledge giving him new found confidence he dropped his ultra quiet movements and just walked over to the desk, rifling through any drawers that were unlocked. His torchlight revealed no useful documents; time for the locked drawers.

In his (in hind sight, perhaps misguided) desperation for revenge, James had actually learned how to lock pick, so the simple cam locks on these drawers were nothing.

Before he could even pull open his first drawer, however, the lights exploded on, dazzling his dark-accustomed eyes. The door to the study burst open and in charged a bare chested and barefoot Tate with a baseball bat clutched in his strong hands. The furious look on his face evaporated any and all confidence that James had mustered.

"Sullivan?" Tate's eyes didn't lose any of their fury, but slight amusement and incredulity crept in. "You broke into my fucking house?" The guttural cackle that followed woke James up to the folly he had committed. What was he thinking? Breaking and fucking entering?

"I-I can explain!" James fumbled, trying to stand up from his sitting position. Tate strode over and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him up.

"Oh you'll fucking explain all right. You'll do a lot more than that."

"Don't call the police! Please! I'm begging you!"

"I'll show you begging." Tate muttered, dragging a half-standing James who was resisting in vain. Tate was stronger than he had realised; his grip was like a vice. "I'm not gonna call the police, you plebeian. Once I'm finished with you you'll be wishing I had."

"W-What are you gonna do to me?" James stammered as he was dragged through the house to an unknown destination.

"Well, I don't want to spoil the surprise do I?"

James was dropped to the floor and pinned by a foot while a door was unlocked by a key with red ribbon tied to it in a bow.

"Just you wait till you see what's behind this door." Tate glanced down at his captive. "I bet it'll make you laugh."


	3. INTERLUDE

[Very, very NSFW. Just saying. The following passage contains the details of straight sex, so if you don't wanna read aboot that that don't read this bit. It's not detrimental to the story flow and is more of a tidbit.]

*5 Months Before*

"Babe..." I said, stroking James's chest. We were cuddled up on the sofa, watching Netflix. Which would have been fine...if it wasn't three months since the last time we'd had sex. "I'm really horny." I whispered the last part, using all my usual tricks to get him titillated. He reacted like he normally does: smiling like a dork. Not a cute dork, a dork who looks like he's just been complimented by an old lady. I needed a man, not this...boy who sat before me.

"Oh, you're horny? Let's do something about that shall we?" Better. This was better; now let's go to the bedroom...or let's just stay here, still kissing on the sofa. Fine.

Five minutes. Five whole minutes of kissing on the sofa. Don't get me wrong: I like kissing. Love it, in fact. But at that very moment in time I was ridiculously horny, mainly because of the sex scene that had just played. I was ready to be fucked, not gently kissed, for fucks sake.

I wanted to give him a chance to initiate, but apparently not, so I took it upon myself to drag us both to the bedroom, upping the ante on the kissing and fondling. Then he got the idea and reciprocated.

Here's the thing: he was hard during all this. Like...what's up with that? He was hard that whole time and didn't want to go to the bedroom? I though men were sex obsessed animals.

"You're so beautiful." He said, pushing me onto the bed. Gently.

Yeah, yeah, get on with it. "You're beautiful too." I said, then tugged of his t-shirt with a desperation that didn't match my tone.

"Oh yeah." He said as if he'd forgotten that you get naked to have sex.

He was dry humping my jeans, at least. Good sign. Then he slipped off his own jeans and socks. Excellent. The sight of his bulge was getting me even more in the mood.

"Strip me." I commanded.

"Are you sure? Erm...ok." He pulled off my top gently (fucking gently!) and then shimmied me out of my jeans. I sat up and kissed him again, wrapping my legs around him as he fumbled with my bra strap. Perfecto. Smooth sailing from here, surely. Hopefully.

We clambered into bed. With my prompting he relieved me of my panties and slipped off his boxers. Hot. Super hot! Yes, look at his...muscles...or...his dick, yes! So...meh. I mean yes! Hot! I can't wait for him to get inside me! He got on top of me and I stroked his dick a bit to get him fully hard. Judging by the faces he pulled he nearly spewed right there and then.

"Condom." I said. I was on the pill too (better safe than...sorry you had a kid with someone who you aren't sure you love).

"Fuck. Yeah." He awkwardly rotated his whole body to reach the bedside table.

"Pass it to me." I said when he'd fished it out of the drawer. Last time he had spent about five minutes trying to open it with one hand while the other was busy propping himself up over me. I ripped it from its packet and rolled it onto his dick, his eyes fluttering in pleasure again. If you orgasm right now I will kick you in the balls so hard you'll wish you weren't born.

And then he was in and thrusting. Was he? I think he was in. There was definitely something happening down there...yep, there's the eye flutter; he was definitely in.

I tried my hardest to enjoy it, I really did. I tried to pull faces and everything. I even moaned a little, but the feeling just wasn't there. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I had to picture James as Shawn Mendes to stay wet. I'd never tell him any of this, obviously. It would break his little heart and that's the last thing I wanted to do.

He was a great boyfriend in other aspects. When my period came around he was an absolute life saver and he was funny and smart and kind...but he was lacking in the sex department. Severely. Detrimentally.

I watched out for the telltale signs that his climax was immanent (that look like he's about to sneeze) and then did the biggest fake orgasm of my life as he had what was probably one of the best real ones he's ever had. He slumped on top of me and then rolled over, placing the used condom on his bedside table.

Total duration of penetrative sex: 3 minutes.

"Holy shit!" He was still panting. "Babe that was amazing! What that good for you?"

"So fucking good, babe." I lied. "Amazing."

I wasn't lying to hurt him, I was lying to preserve his feelings, if not our relationship. I mean three fucking years with someone you learn what would absolutely destroy them and you hide it. This is what would obliterate James if he found out. I'd wished it would be better than last time, that was my one desperate hope.

It wasn't.

"I love you so much, Nina." He said minutes later.

I pretended to be asleep.


	4. THE RED ROOM

James was flung into the room. Everything was a deep crimson. Red walls, carpet, ceiling, lampshades, ropes, bondage chairs...ropes and...bondage chairs?

"What the fuck?" James whispered.

"Welcome to the Red Room, James. This is where I break the weak, in a more literal sense." Tate strode in, domineering even in just his pyjama bottoms. He picked up James like he weighed no more than a pillow and carried him to a red leather chair. It was the kind of bondage chair with stocks attached and arms protruding from the side that James was ashamed to admit that he recognised.

He was dropped into it and barely even tried to fight as his arms were locked in and then his ankles were clamped into the stocks. Even if he escaped Tate would just catch him and lock him up anyway. Why delay the inevitable?

"Please Tate! What are you gonna do? I wasn't doing anything bad, I promise! I just wanted to get back at you! You lost me my job!"

Tate leaned in close. "Silence." The way he said it made James stop talking immediately. He was at the mercy of this psychopath, so he wasn't keen to push his luck. Tate climbed gracefully up onto the chair and perched on the stocks, facing James' trapped figure, so that his bare feet were placed either side of James' black-clad torso. "You're so stupid it's almost cute. You thought you could break into my house because I was at the ball. Dumbass. I didn't go to the ball this year. I was in my bedroom watching porn and I hear a noise coming from downstairs. I grab Stacy," His bat? "And then find a snivelling little rodent digging through my stuff. It must be my lucky night."

He hopped off the stocks and wandered about the dim room. He ran his fingers along the various items dangling from a rack on the far wall: paddles of various shapes and sizes, handcuffs, feather dusters, brushes and many other sinister things that James didn't particularly want to know about. Tate curated a selection of them and wheeled them over on a trolley. "Weakness. It makes me feel sick. I bring weak people down here, James, people like you, and I break them body and soul. And you know what?" James said nothing. "Do you know what?" Tate pinched James' cheeks so his lips puckered.

"What?" James said, dejected.

"Men are the most fun to break. They are so determined to be strong that they prolong their torture. Watching them crumble beneath my power...it makes me hard. So resistant to begging at first, then it becomes too much and they snap like twigs. When I break them they would do anything to get me to stop. They beg like the puny slugs they are."

Tate walked to James and whispered softly in his ear making him tingle all over. "That's what I'm going to do to you."

James gulped. He was already beginning to perspire from the way Tate had described what he did to people. This guy was even crazier than James had previously thought. Or was he? Maybe he was just so terrifyingly sadistic that it seemed psychopathic to a normal person.

These wonderings were all secondary to his primary reaction to Tate's whisper: abject terror.

"Now there's a thing I save for the people who I want to punish the worst. Previous subjects have said that they would take pain over what they experienced any day." He walked back to the stocks and rested his hands on James' sneakers. "Let's see if you can guess what it is."

His sneakers were tugged off gently, teasingly. James didn't even question it, just raised his eyebrow in puzzlement. Then the feeling of a single nail dragging down his foot punched him in the hypothalamus.

No.

This couldn't be it. He was going to— James couldn't even bring himself to think it. Memories flooded in, reawakened by the sensation: him being pinned to the floor by his friends, screaming for mercy; his older cousin trapping his ankles in a headlock; his brother digging into his armpits mercilessly.

Tate, his ex-boss and arch enemy, was going to-

Was going to—

T-t—

TICKLE HIM?

no

No

NO

"T-Tate. I want you to think about what you're doing." James stammered, scrounging together what little confidence he had.

"Ok, bitchboy, I'll think. Hmmmmmm. I'm going to tickle you until you fucking piss yourself. That enough thinking for ya?" Tate dragged his nail down again causing James' leg to twitch involuntarily. "Wow, James. Socks on and only one finger and you're already this shook up? Jesus Christ, this'll be fun."

"Nyaaa!" James yelped when another nail was added. The realisation that this was merely the beginning of what would be one of the most intense experiences of his life permeated into his brain and gave James a mini internal panic attack. James was too ticklish. Not just ticklish like other people: he was too ticklish. It was like God had turned up his sensitivity to 11 as a prank.

Despite the odds being supremely stacked against him James was determined not to laugh yet. It was inevitable, of course, but it was one of his only ways of flipping a big middle finger to Tate.

"Coochie coochie coo, James. Let's hear some giggles." Now all of his fingers had been added to both socked soles and were creeping their way around them like the unwelcome guests they were. James bucked in the chair, straining against the urge to cackle and, surprisingly, winning. "Now now, James. Nobody likes a spoil sport. Let's hear some laughs. Don't makes me kick it up a notch..."

"F-fuck youhohou!" James winced against the tickling.

"Then you leave me no choice." Tate brutally raked his arched fingers down both soles with a smirk, knowing the absolute power he held over the brunette lad now bucking in the chair.

"Ugghhhhhhh. Fucckkkkkk!" His suppression of laughter came out in the form of groans and half formed words. His face was screwed up in concentration: the raking sensation was like being pressure washed with tickling and James wasn't sure how much more he could take without the pressure-release valve that was uncontrollable laughter.

A concentrated scribble of fingers on his heels took a ballistic missile to his dam of resistance and an unstoppable flood of laughter was released. "Hahahahahahahahaha fuck fuck fucking hahahaahhahahahahahahaha!"

"Yes! Come on, James! Give me more. Give your master more laughter. I can see you cracking already." Tate never once stopped his scribbling, raking technique that was so effective at stimulation the soles. Tate had had lots of practise with this particular move.

The socks offered barely any protection from the bombardment of sensations, but James still knew from experience that it would be infinitely worse when they were removed.

As the tickling continued, unceasing, Tate spoke. "You know, James, faking those late reports was one of the smartest things I have ever done. I knew it was just a matter of waiting before you'd be late to work and I could just boot you out, easy as pie."

"Grrrrrrahahahahahahahahahahahafuhuhuhuhuhuhcckkkkkkyohohohohohohohououou!"

Tate ignored the incessant whining of his victim. "You know I heard those weeks afterward were pretty hard on you. Lots of ice cream and crying. That sounds a lot like you. And then you went to your parents for a few weeks..." He smiled, as if reminiscing on happy memories. "I felt so sorry for your girlfriend, all alone in your little flat, so I gave her a visit. Of course, I felt sorry for her anyway because she had you as a boyfriend."

"Hmph." James glared, mid-laugh.

"We fucked like we had before," Tate smiled at the shocked yet sceptical look on James' face, underneath the face of laughter of course. "And for some reason it was the best we've ever had, and that's saying something. She thinks it was because you hadn't had sex in a while...but I think it was because whatever sex you did have was so fucking bad that having me was like chugging a gallon of cool, fresh water after months in the desert." His fingers flexed and stroked like he was a professional harpist playing his charge. "God, she moaned like a banshee. I have to say, I was moaning too. She was just so tight and wet..."

"Huh, huh yohohohou're lyihihihihing!" James wheezed.

"No. I'm not. That's what's so good about this situation. I even asked her what you call her in bed so you'd know it was true. Snuggles. She laughed about that. Said it was the saddest thing ever."

James stomach dropped. It was true. Nina... "LIAR!" He yelled.

"Denial is a natural reaction I suppose. I like your girlfriend. She's strong, wile. Unlike you. She's strong and you're weak; you never deserved her. That's partially why you're here right now, getting the shit tickled out of you."

Eventually he'd be devastated by what he'd learned about his girlfriend, but right now he was mightily distracted by a raging hatred for Tate and unrelenting tickling. Theoretically James should have been getting used to the scribbling on his ridiculously sensitive soles but he definitely wasn't. He hadn't stopped giggling since he'd started except for the occasional exclamation.

"These socks are in the way." Tate said matter of factly, teasing them off.

"No." James panted.

"Yes! My, my...look at these soles, just begging to be tortured! Are you ready, bitch? Are you ready?"

"Fuck you, freak." James spat.

"Aww, is widdle baby upset? I know what will make you feel better." Tate slowly dragged his nails down the smooth flesh of James' bare feet. The trapped man yelped loudly, frantically yanking at his bonds. It was like Tate had taken two tasers to his tender soles and was letting rip. Electricity danced up his nerves.

"F-fuck nononononono! Stop! Not the fucking-"

"Not the what? I want you to say it." Tate teased, smiling at his victims pain.

James glared at him with a fury that Tate found distinctly amusing.

"Awww you're no fun. Bad boys who don't do as they're told get punished." He raked his fingers down the soles once again, the lack of sock multiplying the sensation by a thousand.

"Hahahahahahahahaha! Fuck nonononono! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!" James screamed. He was sweating profusely now: he was still in his big black hoody and jeans. Combined with the involuntary reactions that came with being tortured with tickling he was sweating up a storm.

Tate noticed this, his own muscles shimmering in the dim light of the sex dungeon, and ceased the brutal tickling for a moment. "You look hot, Sullivan. Shall I take off your hoody? Give you some water?"

James forced himself just to glare at the man, but he was desperate for a drink and he was roasting hot. He wasn't sure how long he had been tortured, but it felt like hours and didn't show signs of stopping any time soon, not if Tate had anything to do with it.

The sadistic man smiled. "I'll take that glare as a yes."

He picked up some scissors off the tray and started cutting the hoody off.

"Hey! This was fucking expensive you prick!" James protested.

"I'll buy you a new one if you really want." Tate snipped the whole thing off and got to work on the shirt. In a few moments James was bare chested, his not-quite-muscly torso positively shimmering with perspiration. As he pulled away from his captive, Tate noticed a hump at the front of James' jeans. Could this day get any better? "You're turned on by this?"

James said nothing.

"Ohhhhh! I knew you were a little bitch! You fucking love this don't you?" He walked back to his spot at the stocks. "You love being dominated by me, is that it?" He resumed the tickling, this time picking up two soft feathers and fluttering them up and down the exposed soles. "James Sullivan loves being my tickle slave!"

James shrieked at the new tickling action. The feathers titillated his whole foot, the infinitesimal strands of the feather brushing so softly against his skin yet causing such a rush of sensation. Tate then swiped the tools from hell across the pads of his feet so that the skin below his toes was stroked and teased, as well as the hard to reach spots between his toes. His brother was a fan of that area and used it to his full advantage whenever he had the chance, which was when they were both at their parents house for both Christmas and Easter and Labour Day and any other time they just so happened to cross paths. It was brutal...but was somehow less brutal than this. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The feathers were a different feeling to the nails, perhaps less intense, but the feeling was no less ticklish, it was just ticklish in a different way. Either way it was achieving the desired effect: James arched his back, twisting his feet as much as possible to escape the tickling in vain.

James breathless laughter was music to Tate's ears. "I've got a game. I said I'd give you water, and I will. If you beg for it. No! Beg for me to tickle you harder. Then I'll give you water."

James anger had not yet cooled but it was being beaten into submission by the tickling and his desperation for a drink. One side of him whispered to persevere and show Tate some strength. Another, louder side of him shouted for him to give in. Guess which side won.

"PleahahahahahahahahseeetihihihihcklemehehehehehehehardeheheheheheheTateahahahahahahahahahahahahaha-" James grovelled, sickening himself.

"No. Not Tate. Master." Tate's fingers never slowed, not once.

"Mahahahahahahahastehehehehrrrpleahahahahahahahaseee!"

"Ok, slave. God, you must be embarrassed. How does it feel to be at the mercy of another man? If only Nina could see you now." The feathers lifted from James' bare soles that were a brilliant shade of pink now. Tate walked out of the room and returned a moment later with a glass of cool water. It graced James' thirsty lips and he drank deeply, the cold water providing his nearly-hoarse throat with some much-needed lubrication.

Tate pulled the glass away when he was done. "What do you say?"

"Thank you." James muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Thank you." He said, louder.

"Good boy." Tate traced his nail on the part of the bulge that covered the tip of James' member. James shivered and nearly shied away until his body realised it was pleasurable and then bucked slightly towards the finger. "Let's break you, shall we? I'm getting tired and that porn I was watching was really fucking good."

Tate pulled up a stool and wrangled James' writhing toes into the little loops of sting at the top of the stock. Then with his soles pulled taut and immobile Tate lathered them up with some baby oil, rubbing his palms up and down and even running his fingers in between the toes. James even had to stifle laughter at this: even the feeling of Tate's smooth skin rubbing against his tickled like a bitch.

"Sullivan. Look." When James glanced up Tate was holding up two brushes, rounded bristles gracing it's surface which was narrow and precise. The restrained and humiliated man's eyes widened with fear. "Meet Tom and Tim. These two puppies never fail to break my victims." He kissed each of the brushes. "Ready?"

"Piss off."

"I won't be the one pissing..." Tate then began the final act, the crescendo of his masterpiece. With the finesse of a professional sculptor he worked his tools masterfully, sawing the blunt bristles of the brushes up and down, side to side on the lubricated soles that shone like precious stones.

James thought he knew what tickling was. He thought he had very much gotten the gist of it from years of brotherly torture, but this was...something else. Something ungodly. The toe restraints gave Tate unadulterated access to James' Achilles heel, the oil let the brushes glide like ice skaters over his flesh and the brushes— he couldn't even think about them. Each and every bristle tickled in a way that combined pressured and gentle ticking, gargalesis and knismesis, in a way that Lucifer himself must have conceived of. His nerves were on fire, his brain pummelled by impulses.

James started cackling, shrieking, screaming with laughter in the most uncontrollable way; he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. Tate had complete control over him. After a few minutes of pure heel and arch tickling Tate lifted the brushes.

""Ten second break, because I'm a merciful master." Tate smiled, knowing the opposite was true.

James gasped deeply, momentarily released from sensation overload. He was ashamed at what he was about to do, but he had no other choice. He couldn't survive another attack like that.

"Tate, please. Please stop. I'll do anything. I'll go and I swear on my brother's life I won't tell a soul what has happened here. Just, please, don't tickle me anymore. I can't take it anymore. Please..."

"Hmmm," Tate sounded like he was genuinely considering it. A small glimmer of hope sparked in James' chest— "No." The spark was snuffed as quickly as it had arisen.

Sitting here strapped to a chair, shirtless and barefoot, sweating like a pig, in front of his arch enemy who was tickling the shit out of him (tickling for fucks sake!), and now having just begged for release only to be denied it so coldly, James realised what being broken was. It was all hope being squeezed - or in his case, tickled - out of you until you were just a husk. That's how James felt then, watching Tate pick up Tom and Tim and stroke them in the virgin flesh of the base of his toes.

He was drowned in sensation, fighting against a current of stimulation and he was losing. He didn't even have the energy to laugh as his most ticklish spot was exploited in the cruellest way possible, he just sat there twitching periodically, moaning quietly.

He passed out five minutes later.

"I knew he was weak." Tate muttered, putting down the brushes and casually strolling upstairs to finish his business as if the last four hours hadn't happened.

James would have a good rest, at least. Good thing too; he'd be up in the morning for a nice long tickle session.


End file.
